


Back to My Home I Will Not Go.

by orphan_account



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Drama, Gen, Humor, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-30
Updated: 2011-08-30
Packaged: 2017-10-23 06:08:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,727
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/247060
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Scott and Stiles try and make another cure for Lycanthropy, give Derek a heart attack in the process, and nobody really gets what they want.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Back to My Home I Will Not Go.

“Are you sure about this?” Scott asked, eyeing the innocent looking plants on the table. Rye seeds, Mistletoe and a jug of milk were spread across the surface in haphazard piles. Scott's eyes itched from it all and he felt a sneeze building up. It was like staring at the most potent onion ever. He wrinkled his nose in protest and rubbed at it with his sleeve.

“Of course I'm sure,” Stiles said, grabbing a handful of seeds and dunking them into a blender.

They'd holed up in the exam room at Scott's work after hours. The veterinary clinic was dark except for their room; the kennel's, iso and lobby all locked up. Scott had insisted on putting everything in order before they started, and Stiles had shut off the lights to discourage visitors. Scott's boss was long gone, and it was just the two of them. Safe from the critical eyes of parents and Derek Hale.

The new Alpha refused to speak to either of them about a cure, but he had remained a constant, vigilant presence. It made looking for a cure difficult. Derek would show up at their school, Scott's house, the hospital, even the police station on one memorable occasion. Always bringing his werewolf business with him. He hadn't come near the Vet clinic though. Not since the night of the formal. It was the only place they could get away from him. So it had become a safe haven for Scott, and by extension Stiles. Almost like a club house for the NDA; No Derek's Allowed.

It was the perfect place for their Frankenstein experiment.

“How sure are you?” Scott asked, eyeing their milkshake of doom nervously. Stiles paused and cocked his head.

“Sixty percent sure.” He smashed some mistletoe down into the pitcher and poured milk over it.

“Can't we do any better then that?”

“...sixty six percent?” Stiles amended slapping the lid on the blender. He rested an elbow on top of the machine. “Look you want to be cured right?”

“Yeah, you know I do,” Scott insisted, then said. “Can you be careful with that, my mom's uses it for breakfast.”

“Look,” Stiles said, waving his hands wildly while Scott attempted to drag the blender away from his enthusiastic gestures. “Of the very few non-lethal cures for werewolfism I could find, considering that saying your name three times didn't work.”

“If it did my mom would've cured me when she saw the gas tank on the car,” Scott mumbled.

“Or scolding you very firmly.”

“we're so not doing that again,” Scott made a face at Stiles. The other teen shrugged and said,

“Actually I thought I made some good points. Anyway, this is my next best guess besides sticking iron nails in your hands.”

“No way!” Scott exclaimed.

“Or, and I cannot believe I'm saying this, asking Derek.”

“No,” Scott said just as vehemently, his heart doing an odd skip in his chest at the thought. Derek might actually be worse then iron nails at this point.

“Okay.” Stiles brightened, glad to get the ethically necessary but uncomfortable mention of Diabolical Derek out of the way. “Cocktail al-la Stiles it is then. I think it's ready.”

They both looked down at the blender, Stiles with pride and Scott with doubt. Then each of them took a step back and closed their eyes as Stiles pushed the power button. The blender roared to life. Outside the door the dogs in the kennels started barking. Scott slapped his hands over his ears and glared at his best friend, and Stiles leaped up and held the blender down while it rattled around the table like a wind-up toy.

It finished with a final grinding buzz, and Stiles shut the blender off with a flourish. Then he poured a generous amount of their Mistletoe and Rye paste into a waiting glass and handed it to his best friend.

“Bottoms up,” he said with a smile. Scott took the glass and made a disgusted face at the anti-werewolf smoothie. He looked it over dubiously and then suddenly asked,

“Do you remember that time in pre-school when you put bees in my pocket?”

Stiles squirmed.

“Maybe, what's your point?”

“Nothin',” Scott said with a shrug. Maybe this was bad idea, but most of Stiles ideas were bad. Scott had been following him around since they were little anyway. He figured nothing could be worse than bees in his pants. He sniffed the drink cautiously and reeled back at the smell. The itching around his eyes grew worse and his gut made a weird flutter.

“Come one, Scott,” Stile's urged. “It's not gonna work if your just stare at it. This stuff isn't poisonous, you ate rye bread with us last Christmas.”

Scott nodded, and took a breath. Then saluted his friend with the glass and tossed it back in one gulp. He immediately regretted this when he doubled over and gripped the exam table, gagging at the wretched taste.

“Whoa,” Stiles jumped in and put a hand to his shoulder. “You okay,” he asked, a little nervously. “You feel anything? A dulling of the senses? a sweeping return to humanity and a life where your best friend isn't the main meal?”

Scott said nothing. The mixture burned going down, worse then the whiskey they'd stolen from Stiles' dad. He pressed his face into the cool, metal table and concentrated on breathing. Nausea rolled up in his belly and he gritted his teeth against it, refusing to vomit up this chance at a cure. For moment he thought he had it under control, and he looked up at Stiles with a wavering smile.

Then a sharp, blinding pain stabbed through his gut and he squeezed his eyes closed with a gasp. Sweat broke out on his skin and his body started to shake.

“Scott?” Stiles' voice faltered.

The glass dropped from Scott's hand and shattered on the floor. Pale goop and shards of glass spilled over the tiles and Scott's feet slid back in the mess.

“Something's wrong Stiles. Somethings very wrong,” Scott groaned. Then his body convulsed. He jerked against the table as if someone had sunk a hook into his belly and was yanking him backwards. His legs gave out and he dropped to the floor on hands and knees.

“Oh crap,” Stiles moaned, and dropped next to his friend “Not good, not good, this is not good,” he chanted in a panicked rush.

A broken wail ripped through Scott. He felt as if his body was liquifying. His arms went around his belly and his head sunk to the ground, forehead resting on the linoleum. He held himself tightly while a sick pain throbbed through him. His throat worked in a choking rhythm, breaking up his voice. The cry turned into a low howl, and the sound of it almost shook the bottles off their shelves. His eye's flared yellow and his call came in short, painful spurts.

“Oh, god. Okay I can do this,” Stiles started talking to himself. He shoved against Scott's shoulder, trying to push the other teen up and get behind him to do the Heimlich. Scott could not sit up, and tipped over onto his side instead. He curled into a shaking ball and Stile's ran a hand over his own head, realizing he didn't know how to actually do the Heimlich Maneuver.

He knew the theory, grab here, press there, watch a bit of shrimp go flying into some socialites margarita. Except not. They hadn't covered this in phys-ed. How useless was that. He knew all about the vagina but not how to save his friend from choking. He couldn't even get his arms around Scott. Okay what else. How did you induce vomiting? should he call poison control? Excuse me, my werewolf just swallowed something very bad, what do you do with a dog that's eaten chocolate? He was gearing himself up to stick his fingers down Scott's throat roman style, when he heard a crash from the back of the clinic.

Stile's head snapped up, then the door to the exam room burst open. The teen looked up at the scuffed sneakers, dark jeans and black face of Derek Hale. His nemesis. Oh this was not gonna be good.

“What the hell did you do?” Derek's angry voice sliced through the clinic.

Stiles wanted to object that he hadn't done anything and it was unfair for Mr. Lying Alpha Sour-pants to assume it was all his fault, even though it kinda was, but that was totally not the point. Then Scott let out another pathetic groan on the floor.

Stiles turned back to his friend and Derek was kneeling beside him in an instant. He shouldered Stiles aside, and where Stiles had failed to squeeze his arms around Scott, Derek simply picked him up and sat him upright.

“Get me salt and water,” Derek demanded. Stiles scrambled to obey without a second thought. Crashes and bangs filled the room as he rampaged through the cupboards. Derek winced at every sound, and spared a vile glare at Stiles' back while he wedged and arm around Scott's grip on his belly.

“Scott,” He called softly, pressing a hand to the teen's convulsing throat. “Scott can you hear me?”

Scott didn't respond, and his eyes rolled back in his head as he started to seizure.

“STILES!” Derek yelled. The other teen came skidding back across the floor, dropping next to him with water, a paper cup and a large vial of sea salt. Derek pulled Scott's shaking body into his lap and forced his head up. They needed to do this before he couldn't breath.

“Mix them up,” he ordered Stiles, keeping a hold of the thrashing Beta. Once the teen was done spilling the salt over the floor next to the blender experiment, Derek snatched the salt-water mix from him and poured it down Scott's throat. He shoved a hand over the teen's mouth to hold it in and pressed Scott's head back against his shoulder.

Scott choked, and jerked in his grip. Derek held Scott while he jerked until he felt a new kind of spasm run through the teen and a hot backwash hit his palm. He quickly thrust Scott forward and released him. A long ugly stream of vomit poured from the kid's ragged mouth, black with blood.

Derek kept one hand on his head, directing him to throw up on the floor, and one arm around the teen's convulsing stomach. They stayed that way for some time. Scott's shirt grew dark from spilling drool and puke and blood. The stench in the clinic room rose to extravagant proportions. Derek's own insides clenched in sympathy with every retch torn from Scott's body. The knees of his jeans were soaked, but the older wolf didn't seem to care.

Eventually Scott's heaving began to die down in exhaustion.

“Is he okay?” Stiles asked, shakily. Derek didn't look at him, but his eye's flared red with rage. He could smell the Rye and Mistletoe hanging over them like a pall, and tied up with the smell of sick. The blender and milk on the table, the broken glass and paste on the floor pooled with Scott's bloody vomit. He knew exactly what had happened here, and he was so furious he didn't dare move lest he rip Stile's head from his body. He clutched Scott a little closer, thinking he should have known something like this would happen. These two were the Abbot and Costello of Beacon Hills.

After a moment he gently laid Scott out on the ground, on his back. Then gripped the teen's head and checked his breathing, and heart-rate. Neither were good.

“Damn it,” he growled. Scott had taken too much of the toxic plants, and lost too much fluid through vomiting. He needed a boost.

“Watch him,” he ordered Stiles and stood up, leaving the two teens on the floor as he stormed out of the room.

Stile almost called after him. Where did he think he was going? Was he just leaving them like this? Scott was pale, covered in sweat and wheezing for breath in a way that Stiles knew was not good, and he still didn't know what to do for his friend.

Outside, the kennels suddenly erupted with noise. All the dogs making a chorus of angry barking and howls. There was the slam of a cage door. Then Stiles heard a high, terrified whine and the dragging scrape of nails on linoleum. The keening dog came closer, until it was right outside the door. Then there was a sharp crack, a sickening rip and the dog was silent.

Derek shoved his way back into the exam room, dragging the lifeless body of a dog behind him. Blood ran down one arm from his fist and a red trail smeared across the floor, leading under the door and back into the hall. Stiles gaped as Derek dropped the dog, then knelt beside him and Scott, holding something dark and sponge like in his bloody fist.

“Oh my god, what is that?” Stiles cried, looking at the thing clenched in Derek's hand. “Is that?” he gagged a little. “Did you just rip that dog's heart out?!”

Stiles slapped a hand over his mouth, and stared at the dead animal in revulsion. Derek ignored him, and pulled Scott's jaw open, where he lay limp on the floor. Then he pressed the messy heart into the teen's mouth and squeezed. Streams of blood dripped from the organ down Scott's throat, and Derek began tearing off bits and feeding them to the teen, helping Scott swallow when he needed it.

Stiles watched in paralyzed horror as his best friend was fed the raw heart of a dog.

Derek didn't stop until the last piece was gone. Scott's body had slowly calmed. He occasionally picked up retching again, but this time at a more sedate and healthy pace. Some of the heart came back up, along with more watery poison. Derek held the teen through it all.

Scott finally slumped to the floor in an exhausted heap. Derek pulled him up and slipped one arm around his back, the other under his knees. Then he lifted the teen up, and stood with him as if Scott was just a sack of potatoes.

“Get rid of the body,” Derek ordered, turning towards the door with Scott. The Beta's head rocking on his shoulder.

“What, me?” Stiles squeaked. “What about you, where are you going?”

Derek only replied with a snarl,

“This is your mess. You clean it up.” Then he stormed out of the room with Scott hanging from his arms.

“Ah, crap.” Stiles groaned, standing alone in the ruined exam room, his left shoe in a puddle of his best friend's sick. This was going to take all night. At least he had a good idea of where Derek was going with Scott. Stiles went in search of paper towels and disinfectant, pretending he couldn't feel how wet his eyes were.

~~~

Scott woke up slowly to a good smell. Really good. It was warm, heavy and soothing. It reminded him of lazy breakfasts with his mom, or camping with his dad. He lay still, entranced by the scent and absently shifted his feet under a loose pile of blankets. His feet bare and his legs were trapped by the friction holding onto his jeans. The rest of him was too limp to move.

His throat hurt, his mouth tasted gross, and his head was fuzzy and numb. He ached like he used to after Lacrosse practice. That thought woke him up a little more. When was the last time he'd felt this bad? Not since getting bitten in the woods. What had he been doing? Something Stiles... Stiles and a milkshake.

His throat clenched at the memory of a glass filled with a foul tasting concoction, and he instinctively rolled onto his stomach, searching for an edge to the blankets and a convenient bucket. His mom always kept one nearby when he was sick. He pried open one eye and looked around for Stiles. Then jolted in shock when he realized he was not in his own bed, or his own room, or Stiles' room. In fact he didn't recognize anything... except the burnt out timbers overhead.

Then he realized what the smell was. It was Derek. He was surrounded by Derek's scent because... he was in Derek's bed. That was weird and not a little creepy. Scott lifted his head with great effort and looked down at himself.

His shirt was missing, and he was sprawled, bare chested over a clean mattress and pale sheets. The bed frame was burned like the rest of the house. The knobs on the posts little more then ashes. Above him the walls were blackened, and the rest of the furniture lay dusty with age and miss-use. A single duffle bag sat on the far chair next to a dozen boards of new wood, and a box of nails.

He dropped his head back onto the bed with a groan. This night just kept getting worse. He was wondering if he had the energy to get up when he heard footsteps and the raised voices of Stiles, and Derek. A moment later Derek was pushing open the door and striding into the room, Stiles stumbling in the dark behind him and muttering about 'would it kill Derek to keep a flashlight around.'

Scott wanted to sink into the bed and disappear at the sight of Derek.

He'd been hiding from him since the school's formal dance. Derek had come looking for him often enough, but Scott was determined to avoid the new Alpha. He'd only seen him on the full moon, and from what he could remember, those nights had been filled with nothing but fighting and getting smashed into trees.

On the spot now, Scott wanted to say something cool. Something about Derek minding his own business, and how he wasn't a child and could take of himself.

What came out was,

“where's my shirt?” and Scott inwardly cringed. Derek came to a stop next the bed and replied.

“Burned,”

“You burnt it?” Scott accused, tilting his head back woozily to look up at Derek's looming form.

“Yeah man, it was pretty nasty.” Stiles said from across the room, rocking on his heels. “You don't want that one back, trust me.”

Derek turned to the duffle bag, sitting on the decrepit chair by the wall and yanked it open. He pulled out one of his own V-necked shirts and tossed it at Scott, hitting the teen in the face.

“Put that on,” he ordered.

Scott pulled the shirt away from his face, and hesitated. He wasn't sure about wearing Derek's clothes. It seemed like crossing a line somehow. He didn't like the idea of Derek's smell covering him any more then it already was. Although he was pretty sure only he and Derek could tell.

He didn't think he could get up either. His limbs felt like they were made of jello. Derek was waiting with that impatient look on his face. So Scott tried to move, but all he managed was a clumsy squirm. Derek rolled his eyes and stomped up to the bed, then took Scott by the arm and pulled him into a sitting position

Scott groaned in protest as he was hauled upright, and wavered in place. His face was pressed into Derek's stomach and he got another wave of the older wolf's warm scent. Derek maneuvered his arms into sleeves and pulled the shirt down over Scott's head. Scott thought he'd have to die of embarrassment soon. He was being dressed by Derek Hale like he was two years old. He rolled his head and sent Stiles a look under Derek's elbow to let him know that if this was ever mentioned anywhere, Stiles could say goodbye to his Green Lantern figurine forever.

Stiles was looking pointedly elsewhere and rubbing his head.

“There,” Derek growled.

“Thanks,” Scott started, awkward but still remembering his manners. Derek cut him off.

“If you ever do ANYTHING like that again, I'll kill you myself,” he snapped. Scott blinked, dazed.

“Huh?”

“Your little stunt tonight. What were you two thinking? Do have any idea what you could have done?” Derek yelled.

Oh, yeah, that. Scott shrugged and looked at his knees, mumbling indifferently,

“We thought it was cure, it might have...”

“There is no cure!” Derek snarled, his teeth morphing briefly as his eyes flared red. Scott's head snapped up.

“but you, you said...” He stuttered.

“It's a legend Scott, it's about as true as the tooth fairy, or leprechauns.”

“Or werewolves?” Stiles dared quietly from the background. Derek spun and quelled him with a look that could have wilted sour-grass.

“I'll be just outside,” Stiles simpered and backed through the door, disappearing into the room beyond.

Derek turned back to Scott, his face dark and Scott looked up at him. He always felt lost around Derek. Like when he was in math class and everybody understood the problem but him. He was pretty sure Derek didn't like him. Scott remembered what he'd said in the basement, when he finally told Scott what he really thought of him. He thought Scott was just a kid. He thought his love for Allison was stupid... He thought Scott was stupid. That was fine though, because Scott kind of hated him right back.

Derek's voice rumbled at a supernaturally deep octave as he repeated himself. The words coming out like a threat.

“There is no cure, Scott.”

“There has to be,” Scott insisted. He wasn't interested in hearing otherwise. “I can't stay like this. I'm scared all the time. Scared that I'll hurt someone, or someone'll hurt me, and everything just keeps getting worse.”

Derek raised an eyebrow and said,

“You want to be safe? You want your friends to be safe?”

“Yes,” Scott replied, almost pleading. Derek moved in for the kill, leaning over Scott with one hand on the burned old headboard. Pushing them nose to nose.

“Then stop denying this pack, and stop pulling these stupid stunts with your friend. You almost died tonight Scott! Don't you get that?”

“I don't care!” Scott yelled back, punching the mattress and wishing it was Derek's face. “Stiles was helping, and you won't. You,” Scott started to get short of breath again, anger battling with panic through his ravaged body. The hint of a wheeze in his throat.

“Scott,” Derek began.

“No!” Scott interrupted, his shout coming out little more then a gasp. “You promised you'd help me, and then you ruined everything! Why? I could have been normal, and had my life back. Allison, school. Nobody trying to shoot me. You promised!” He said, as if those two little words would somehow explain everything. His anger trailed off and he repeated in a broken whisper,

"You promised.”

'You lied' went unspoken, but was understood. Derek moved away, something like regret written on his face.

“I know,” he admitted softly.

They left each other alone for few moments, wrapped in the dark. Scott fumed silently, concentrating on his heart rate and breathing. Derek waited and didn't push. Sometimes it seemed like he was always waiting for Scott. Always there on the periphery like an extra shadow that was equally comforting and terrifying.

“Why'd you do it?” Scott finally asked in a whisper, rubbing absently at his chest. He knew it wasn't real asthma, he didn't get that anymore, but it still felt bad.

Derek went to the window and leaned against the sill, looking out over the black swath of trees below. Scott wondered if he'd get an answer. Derek had always dolled out his knowledge like treats. Keeping the most important things to himself so Scott had to come begging for more. Scott hated that, and at times like this he wished he had someone, anyone other then Derek to turn to. He didn't of course, Derek was right about that.

As closed mouthed the guy was, everyone else was worse. Allison's father, even his boss at the clinic. He'd asked his boss what he knew about werewolves. The man had said he “knew a lot about of a lot of things” and left it at that. No amount of prying on Scott's part had gotten more out of him.

Finally Derek said softly,

“I did it to protect us.”

Scott exploded.

“Protect us? from what?” He hollered.

Derek didn't answer, and instead spun around with another question for Scott.

“What would have happened if it hadn't worked Scott? Have you thought about that? I told you I didn't know if it was true. If you killed Peter and that didn't cure you, what then? you can barely control yourself now, you think you could handle being an Alpha?”

Derek's scorn for that idea was plain, and Scott flushed with angry shame.

“I didn't...” Scott growled.

“No, you didn't think,” Derek finished for him. “You would have ripped this town apart and buried yourself in bodies, or died if you changed. My sister would still be gone and...”

“You'd be alone,” Scott finished softly.

Derek twitched and stared down at him, his mouth a thin angry line.

Scott shivered in his borrowed shirt, and wished he knew what Derek was thinking. He tried to get a feeling off the other man, but it wasn't like when he'd read Peter. There was no clear message. Derek was such a mix of things: frustration, exhaustion, regret, worry, and something like affection, but it was hard to tell. None of it showed on his face. He just look angry, like he always did.

“How'd you know... to come to the clinic?” Scott asked awkwardly. Trying to avoid saying 'how did you know I needed help.'

Derek looked like he wanted to roll his eyes.

“I'm the Alpha,” he said, as if that explained everything.

Scott glowered up at him, and his heart beat hard against his chest, picking up speed. His breath came a little short, and it wasn't just left over nausea clenching his gut. Finally Derek sighed and came to crouch by the bed, so he was below Scott's eye level.

“Scott, look at me,” He demanded softly. Scott turned, startled by the move and the new perspective. It was weird looking down at Derek for once. His chest started to ease in surprise, and the Alpha's face softened. The hard edges blurring into something less dangerous.

“I am not like Peter,” Derek insisted, his eyes boring into the teen. Scott gaped, and Derek continued. “I don't care that you have human friends, I don't care who you date so long as it doesn't kill you, and I will never threaten your mom.”

Scott looked away.

“I thought Allison was just a 'stupid teenage crush' and didn't mean anything,” he accused. Derek didn't answer to that, but instead said,

“Scott, I promise it won't be like before. You don't need to be scared of me.”

Scott, wrinkled his face, baffled. What conversation did Derek think he was having? Because it wasn't the same one Scott was having. Scott wasn't afraid of Derek. He was mad at him. Really, really mad. So mad that he didn't want to ever see him again. In fact he'd kind of like Derek to move to another state, so he wouldn't worry about the Alpha darkening his doorway, or showing up in his bedroom... or taking his mom out.

Okay, so he was kinda scared of Derek now. He refused to look at the older wolf and stared at the bedspread instead. Derek sighed and stood. Then nudged Scott's shoulder and said.

“Get some sleep. I'll drive you home in the morning.”

He sounded defeated, and Scott felt horrible. The teen turned away, putting his back to Derek as he lay down again. He was suddenly very tired, and he still hurt from the poison.

“I'm still gonna look for cure,” Scott said to the blankets. Derek's rumbling voice came from beyond the bed.

“Well I can't stop you. Just be careful, and whatever crazy scheme Stiles comes up with next, tell me.”

It wasn't exactly a truce, but it was a start.


End file.
